Christmas in Sleepy Hollow
by kbrand5333
Summary: Unconnected AU Christmas one-shots. Some may be slightly OOC. Ichabbie.
1. Mistletoe

Mistletoe

It's everywhere. Abbie doesn't recall having seen this much around in previous years. But this Christmas season, it seems it's _everywhere._ Mocking her.

Mistletoe.

In people's homes when she goes on calls. In stores (which is just weird and unsafe and she often wonders if she should invent some public health ordinance to make the managers take it down). In the freaking station house. In her own _apartment._ In Crane's cabin.

She tries to avoid stopping beneath any of these ominous branches, her eyes constantly looking up as she walks now. She doesn't want to get caught standing beside anyone. Like Luke. That would be bad. Or Captain Irving. Definition of awkward.

Or, worst of all, _him._

Not because she finds him repulsive, but because she finds him exactly the opposite.

But, just… no. Their relationship is complicated and co-dependent enough as it is.

Abbie knows who's to blame for the mistletoe in her apartment and the cabin. The station house's sprig is also under suspicion. Jenny. Her sister seems hell-bent on trying to catch Abbie under that blasted poisonous sprig with anyone.

No, not just anyone. _Someone._

_ Him._

Crane.

Jenny has been on a mission to find as many ways as possible to push Abbie and Crane together since nearly the minute she met Crane and saw how he interacted with her big sister.

_"Interacted." Right. "Just partners." Right._ Abbie can see these thoughts in Jenny's brain as if they were playing across a marquee on her forehead.

It's been about a year and a half since Crane appeared in Abbie's life, and a year since Katrina disappeared from it. Forever.

That's when Jenny _really_ started in on her mission. Suggesting they go out to Crane's cabin, then receiving a mysterious (and likely fake) phone call and bailing, stranding Abbie alone with him. Always making sure Abbie and Crane sit beside one another when they go anywhere. One time even hip-checking Abbie when she walked past, making her stumble into Crane, who caught her. Naturally.

Caught and held her for _just_ a fraction of a second longer than would be considered "proper."

But that fraction of a second was all Jenny needed.

So: mistletoe. Every-damn-where. Abbie is waiting for Jenny to attach a branch to a hat and staple said hat to Abbie's head.

"Come _on,_ Ab, let's _go,_" Jenny urges, halfway out the door, box of ornaments under one arm.

"Yeah, yeah," Abbie says, sauntering out into the living room with her boots in her hand.

"Damn, you don't even have your boots on yet?" Jenny makes an exasperated noise and closes the door again, leaning against it, waiting impatiently.

"What's the big rush? It's not like he's going anywhere," Abbie says. While Crane has learned basic driving skills, he has no car, so he's still at Abbie's mercy when he wishes to go somewhere. But Abbie knows exactly what the big rush is. Jenny is itching to get her sister out to the cabin so she can put the wheels in motion on whatever her next Big Plan is.

Abbie has learned trying to catch Jenny at her games or asking her what she's doing only ends up being an exercise in futility. So, she mainly ignores her sister's taunts and remarks, choosing, instead, to keep her eyes and ears open.

Sometimes she ponders the possibilities of giving in. Of letting one of Jenny's plans work. She's not in denial of her growing feelings for her partner, but she doesn't know if they are requited.

She's decided not knowing is less painful than confessing and being rejected. Because then, it'll always be out there, an invisible wall of _knowledge_ between them.

Abbie could not live with that. It would slowly, painfully crush her over time until she was nothing more than an empty shell with a broken heart.

"All right, let's go," Abbie says, standing and reaching for her coat.

"Good. Let's go get tall, dark, and British a Christmas tree, shall we?" Jenny says, practically sprinting out the door.

_Sweet Jesus,_ Abbie thinks, rolling her eyes as she closes and locks the apartment door.

xXx

"It is a fine tree," Crane declares, standing in front of the pine, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "I like it very much, indeed."

"Good. Now, step aside so I can start putting the lights on it," Abbie says, thankful that this year she won't have to have the _why-you-cannot-put-candles-on-a-Christmas-tree _discussion with him. He didn't even have his own tree last year, in fact, so this is a big deal for him.

"Of course, Miss Mills," he says, stepping back, smiling indulgently at her as he does so. Abbie doesn't really notice anymore, he does it so often. Jenny, of course, does, and starts handing ornaments to Crane.

A minute later, Abbie feels him behind her, trying to hang ornaments on the tree before she's finished the lights.

"Crane," she nudges him in the stomach with her elbow, "you have to wait until the lights are on before you can start hanging those."

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Miss Jenny started handing me these ornaments, and…"

He's still _right_ there. "Of course she did," Abbie says, peering around Crane to glare at her sister.

Jenny smiles and waves, then looks pointedly at her cell phone. A threat.

"Why don't you go make us some cocoa," Abbie suggests, touching his arm lightly. Crane actually makes wicked good cocoa.

"Are you yet cold, Lieutenant?" he asks, his voice full of concern.

"A little," she says. Half-lying. Crane insisted on one of those cut-your-own places instead of just going to the lot outside Walgreen's, so there was a fair amount of trudging through the cold and snow.

Abbie knew better than suggest the fake tree option, for fear of an indignant diatribe about the prevalence of _plastic_ in the world and how it cannot _possibly_ be harmless. Or something to that effect.

The upside was she got to watch Crane swing an axe at something that wasn't trying to kill him back. For once.

And it was a _good_ show.

So yes, she's a bit chilled still, but his proximity alone is taking care of that quite effectively.

"Can I offer you a sweater, perhaps? I'm certain my slippers would be much too large for you…" he trails off, looking down at her sock-clad feet, her snowy boots having been abandoned by the door.

Really she would _love_ one of his sweaters. Not because she's especially cold, but because it would be _his_ sweater, smelling of him. It would almost be like she was wrapped in his embrace, his warmth surrounding her…

"Lieutenant?"

_Oh God, daydreaming._ "No, thank you, I'm fine," she says, ignoring the knowing snort she just heard from her sister.

"It would be no trouble," he presses.

"I'm good, thanks. Cocoa?"

"Yes. Right." He turns on his heel and strides the short distance to the kitchen.

Jenny catches Abbie's eye long enough to give her a look that clearly says _Come ON, girl. This is too easy._

An hour later, the tree is decorated, cocoa consumed, and Abbie has managed to avoid Jenny's blatant nudging as well as the sprig of mistletoe hanging near the front door.

"We should get going," Abbie suggests, looking out the window to see the shadows growing long outside. "I have some research I need to get back to."

"What research?" Jenny asks. Crane looks curious as well.

"Just… stuff I'm… looking into…" she says. _Damn it._

"Rrrriiiiighhht…" Jenny says, drawing the word out as long as possible.

"I would persuade you to stay for supper, but I'm afraid I have limited provisions at the moment. Miss Mills, may we go to the market tomorrow?"

"Sure, of course," she answers automatically. The supermarket with Crane is actually still a rather fun adventure, even after a year and a half. Watching him admire the butcher case alone is worth the trip.

"Excellent," he grins.

"I'll call you tomorrow morning," she says, taking her phone out and checking her calendar, just to make sure. "Yeah. We can go tomorrow." She sets her phone down on the table and heads for her boots and coat. Jenny is already at the door, waiting.

Lying in wait, rather. Hoping to use her imaginary Jedi Mind Trick to maneuver them under the mistletoe.

"Good night, Miss Mills, Miss Jenny. Thank you very much for helping me with my tree," he says, nodding politely to both sisters, his eyes lingering on Abbie that fraction of a second too long once again.

"'Night, Crane," Abbie says, waving.

"See ya, Ichy," Jenny answers with a laugh. She knows he hates it when she calls him that, so naturally, she does it as often as possible.

They reach the car when Abbie remembers. "Damn it. My phone," she mutters, tossing her car keys to Jenny so she can get in and start the car to get it warm.

She trots back up the stairs and opens the door without knocking (they're well beyond needing to knock at this point). "Hey, I forgot my—"

"Your smart-phone, Lieutenant," Crane is standing with the phone in his outstretched hand. Abbie secretly loves how he still pronounces _smartphone _like it's a foreign thing. She can clearly hear the fact that he mentally hyphenates it when he says it.

"Thanks," she says, stepping forward to take it from him.

Stepping forward and straight under the mistletoe. She glances up.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath.

His eyes follow hers, then drop back to her upturned face. He clears his throat softly.

"Um, I should go," she tries, stuffing her phone into her coat pocket.

"Miss Mills…"

"Look, you're not really going to…"

"Abbie." She feels his hand on her waist. It burns through her heavy coat.

"It's just a silly tradition," she says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably.

"Silly tradition? A… kiss… under the mistletoe is a practice dating back to the ancient Greeks." His voice is soft, hypnotic, and _when did he get so close?_ "If we cannot honor such a time-tested tradition…"

"Jenny's waiting for me," she whispers.

As if on cue, they hear the sound of Abbie's car, accompanied by the flash of headlights through the cabin as Jenny peels away.

"I think not," Crane whispers, sliding his other hand around her now and dropping his head to hers.

_Soft._ That's the only word that dares enter Abbie's brain as his lips touch hers. His lips are soft. His hands on her back are soft. Even his beard, which she imagined to be scratchy, is soft.

It is a small, chaste, _soft_ kiss, and it is over much too soon.

Even so, the world has shifted.

Crane hovers, his face inches from hers, waiting. Holding his breath.

"What was that?" Abbie asks, wide-eyed and breathless. _From one small kiss. Not even small. Tiny. Microscopic._

"I am not certain. But I should very much like to try it again," he answers. His voice is also soft.

Before Abbie can reply, his lips are on hers again, slightly less soft, slightly more urgent. Insistent.

Passionate.

Her fingers curl into his shirt, clinging to him, and she whimpers quietly just before he releases her lips again.

"Abbie," he whispers, only a breath, resting his forehead against hers.

"Ichabod?" she asks, tremulous and quiet, not sure what exactly she is asking.

"I have been waiting for you under the mistletoe for days," he admits.

"What?" she asks dumbly, blinking at him. He lifts his head and kisses her forehead.

"I am pleased you finally stumbled beneath it here, in the privacy of my home."

"_What?_"

"Miss Mills, has something affected your hearing? I am trying to tell you my fondness for you has surpassed my expectations," he says, cupping her face in his hands. "Do you not feel the same?"

The combination of his shining blue eyes and his thumbs stroking her cheeks is making it _very_ difficult for Abbie to think. "I do," she finally answers.

He releases his held breath, and almost laughs with joy. "Oh, good," he says, kissing her once more. "I _did_ tell you once you are very easy to read, but… your words so often belied your body language that I…"

"Crane, shut up and kiss me again," she says, lifting up on tiptoe and pulling him down by his shirt.

He groans and does as he's been told, kissing her again, boldly open-mouthed this time. His eyes open in surprise when her tongue eagerly meets his but close a moment later, lost again.

He is hunched downward and she is stretched upward, her toes barely on the floor, as they strive to stay together. She moves her arms up around his neck for support and finds herself lifted off the floor, his arms wrapping around her waist.

"Crane," she gasps between kisses, "my coat…"

"…is ruddy inconvenient," he finishes, setting her on her feet and shucking the thick parka from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

He pulls her to the couch and kisses her again, finding it much easier now, not having to contend with the one-foot height difference between them.

"Miss Mills… Abbie… I love you," Crane confesses softly. "I understand if you do not feel the same, but I only ever want to be completely honest with you, and…"

She stops his words with a kiss. "I love you, too, Ichabod," she whispers. "I have for months now. Maybe longer."

"Oh…" he gasps, surprised. "Truly?"

"Truly," she affirms, nodding slightly.

He kisses her again, longer this time, and when they come up for air, Abbie is lying beneath him on the couch, her leg wrapped around his and her fingers in his now-unbound hair.

"I'm stuck here for the night, you realize. My ride ditched me," she says, smirking and toying idly with his hair.

"Good," he answers, returning his lips to hers.


	2. Blizzard

Blizzard

**A/N: OOC Crane and Abbie. It kind of got away from me; you've been warned. Or, Crane stumbled upon Cinemax After Dark a few more times than he'd care to admit and Abbie is on birth control and isn't concerned about possible 18****th**** Century STDs.**

"Hey, don't stay down here too late. The weather's not getting any better out there," Captain Irving pokes his head through the doorway of the archives, where Crane and Abbie are seated opposite one another at the large worktable, each absorbed in his or her own endeavors, Chinese take-out containers strewn around them.

Absentminded mumbles acknowledge the Captain's thoughtful warning. Crane doesn't look up from his book. Abbie doesn't look away from her computer screen.

"All right, then," Irving mutters, quickly walking away, eager to get himself home before the snowfall becomes too heavy.

"Was he saying something of importance just now?" Crane asks ten minutes later, looking up from his book.

"Who?" Abbie asks, peering over the top of her laptop at him.

"Captain Irving. He was here a moment ago. At least, I believe he was." He meets her eyes across the table and holds her gaze. Her eyes are all he can see at the moment, but it is enough. She has the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen.

He's thought so for two months now, ever since that one night in the cabin, nine months after Katrina was lost to him forever. Abbie stayed with him because it was the anniversary of his marriage to Katrina, and she didn't want him to be alone. They wound up falling asleep on the couch together, and he woke up very early the next morning to discover his head in her lap. He'd gotten the best night's sleep since awakening in this time.

Something flipped inside of him that morning, and as the days wear on, it becomes more difficult to deny.

"Was he? What did he say?" she asks.

"I do not know. Perhaps something about the weather? I'm afraid I was so absorbed in my reading, I failed to pay heed to the good Captain's words."

Abbie glances to the high, round windows. "It's still snowing."

He follows her gaze. "So it is. Perhaps that is what he was cautioning us against."

"It's just snow," she says dismissively. Then, as if she just noticed the stiffness in her shoulders, she rolls them and stretches. Closing the laptop's lid, she stands and stretches again, checking the time. "It _is_ getting late," she says, plucking a piece of orange chicken from a container.

"Miss Mills, your fingers…" he protests, wrinkling his nose slightly.

"Are perfectly serviceable tools for eating a piece of chicken," she answers, popping the morsel into her mouth.

"Unsanitary," he mutters, but cannot keep from watching, transfixed, as she licks and sucks the sticky sauce from her fingers.

"Oh, the 250-year-old Revolutionary War-era soldier is worried about things being unsanitary now? After I had to gently persuade you to shower more than once a week? After the stories you've told me about living conditions during the war?" she asks, trying in vain to bite back her laughter.

"Yes, well… I've… acclimated. Learned. I've… good heavens, don't take another piece!" he exclaims as she defiantly and deliberately takes another chunk of chicken from the box.

She lifts it to her lips, then hesitates. "Have you tried the orange chicken, Crane?" she asks, her eyes challenging. She steps closer. Still seated in his chair, he's trapped. "It's quite good. Sweet and savory and spicy all at once," she says.

Crane stares, paralyzed. _Is she aware her behavior could be construed as… suggestive?_

_ Is she aware she may as well have been describing herself?_

Abbie holds the piece of chicken in front of his mouth, offering it to him. "Come on, you gotta try…" she goads, smirking.

"I most certainly do not… _gotta,_" he croaks out, opening his mouth as little as possible lest she pop the chicken into his mouth while he spoke.

In truth, he's not so much put off by accepting a piece of food from her fingers as he is turned on by it. He's afraid if her fingers touch his lips he will not only accept the morsel of food from her, but will also lick every drop of sauce from her delicate digits, sucking them gently into his mouth, kissing each finger in turn before working his way up her arm to her lips and beyond. He's afraid such forward behavior would cause him to lose her forever. That is a risk he dare not take.

She moves the piece of chicken nearly to his lips, smirks… and quickly pops it into her own mouth. "Maybe not," she says, laughing. "Anyway, it's cold." She licks her fingers again, then wipes them on a napkin.

"I'm going to check the weather," she says, turning and heading for the door.

"Very good. I'll just… stay here," he answers. Hoping to rid his mind of its wayward thoughts, Crane mentally shifts in order to recall one of the numerous times he almost died.

Crane looks at his book again, then closes it. His eyes are weary and he needs a break. He picks up a plastic fork and stabs a cold Crab Rangoon, absently nibbling at it as he leans back in his chair.

_I think this is my new favorite._ He ponders the appetizer, crispy on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside. _Hmm. If Miss Mills is sweet and savory and spicy like the orange chicken, then surely I am this Crab Rangoon. Though, I'm not entirely sure if I'm creamy as well as soft on the inside…_ he smiles, chuckling at his own little joke, when Abbie returns.

"I think we're… what are you smiling at over there?" she asks, distracted by the rare sight of a smiling Ichabod Crane.

"Nothing, simply… amusing myself," he says, taking another bite of his Rangoon.

"Crane, you're _supposed_ to eat that with your fingers," she laughs.

"I am managing just fine, thank you. Now, what was it you were saying?" he asks, finishing his snack.

"We're snowed in."

He stares at her, his Lieutenant, standing in the doorway like a tiny sentinel. "Informing me this delicious delicacy is intended to be consumed using one's fingers was more important than informing me we are trapped here all night?"

"Don't forget asking you what you were smiling at," she points out, walking in. "And since there's not really anything we can do about the snow, I figured the news would keep for two more minutes."

Crane looks around the archives. "I've slept in worse places, I suppose," he sighs. "And with far less agreeable company," he adds without thinking.

Abbie blinks, unsure how to process this last statement. She decides to stow it in the rapidly-growing "No Idea" file and move on. "Well, yeah, you were in a cave in the dirt for 200 years and some change, so…"

"That was different. I was dead."

"You were only _mostly_ dead," she says, smirking.

"Ha. Very good," he smiles, chuckling. Two weeks ago, on a rare night when there was nothing prowling around town trying to kill them, Abbie sat Crane down and made him watch _The Princess Bride_. He liked it a lot. Particularly the swordplay. And, curiously, Andre the Giant ("So misunderstood," he had empathized).

"Anyway, the snow has drifted as tall as me against the doors," she starts again.

"Admittedly, not _very_ high then," he interjects.

"Shut up," she laughs. "I can barely see my car in the parking lot, and there are _no_ cars on the roads. It's… very strange." She sits in one of the more comfortable leather chairs. "So. What should we do?" she asks. "I'm tired of working."

The power goes out and they are plunged into instant darkness.

"I suggest we find some candles," Crane's voice reaches her through the darkness.

xXx

After a short time spent fumbling in the dark, Abbie thought to pull out her cell phone to use as a light source and they managed to find a few old candles. Next, they needed to find some matches. Abbie located a lighter in a box containing the contents of Andy's desk and her face softened into a bittersweet smile, remembering his need to occasionally slip outside for a cigarette when he was stressed.

She also found a deck of cards in there, so she took it as well.

They've spent the last hour and a half playing poker, using some stale popcorn as currency.

Crane picked up the game quickly, of course, and after Abbie made the mistake of pointing out how his eyebrows give him away when he has a good hand, he quickly learned to school his features, keeping those wayward brows in line. As a result, he becomes completely unreadable and wins nearly every hand. She curses lightly as he collects the remainder of her popcorn, smug as can be.

"Need I remind you…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm easier to read than that cipher thingamajig," she interrupts him. "I'm just glad we're not playing for real money."

"In truth, I would not feel comfortable taking any _real_ currency from you over a game of chance, Miss Mills." _In truth, I'm quite content to sit and observe your every fascinating move, conscious and unconscious._

"No, I don't suppose you would," she says, looking at him across the small table they'd pulled between the leather chairs. She shivers slightly. No electricity means no working furnace.

"Are you cold, Lieutenant?" he asks, mindlessly eating a piece of popcorn. He makes a face when it makes a rubbery squish instead of the satisfying crunch he was expecting. "Ugh. I had forgotten this is stale," he complains, swallowing the popcorn and reaching for his mug of tea.

"Yes, I'm cold," she says, rubbing her hands together. "Tired, too. I should see if there are some blankets."

Abbie stands and he automatically stands as well, manners tattooed on his DNA. "Please, take my coat," he says, reaching for his old frock coat, discarded on a nearby chair and still holding up quite well given its age and experience.

"I'm okay," she says.

"I insist. You left yours in the station house." Crane holds the coat out for her and she slips her arms into the sleeves. They are too long, but she immediately feels warmer.

"Thank you," she says quietly, feeling the curious wobble in her stomach that's been plaguing her more and more whenever he is very close to her. She picks up a flashlight and starts searching, wishing for some distance in order to clear her head.

There is a large rug under the chairs in which they were seated, so Crane busies himself moving the furniture aside to craft a makeshift sleeping area for them, acutely aware of the fact they'll need to use their own body heat to stay warm through the night.

"Bingo," he hears her declare from a corner of the room. As he walks in the direction of her voice, he hears her sniff and declare, "Musty, but whole."

"I'm sure they will be quite adequate," he says. She jumps, not having heard him approach. "Apologies, I did not mean to startle you."

"It's okay. I sometimes forget how quiet you are," she says, handing him a blanket.

"Are there more? We can pile them together as a sort of makeshift… mattress…" His words trail off as she stares up at him, realization dawning on her.

_We're going to have to cuddle to keep warm._ "Um, yeah," she mutters, digging into the closet for more. She pulls all the blankets out and piles them onto Crane's outstretched arms. "They'll help keep us further away from the cold floor, anyway," she comments. "That's all of them."

The air grows colder as the tension between them grows thicker. They hardly speak as they make their impromptu bed. Their hands brush against each other a few times. And each time, they both jump as though they've been burned.

Crane and Abbie spread four of the seven blankets on the floor into a feeble sort of mattress. Two more get spread on top and folded back as covers, and Abbie folds the final one into a makeshift pillow for them. Thankfully, they are large blankets, wide enough to accommodate the two of them lying side by side without touching each other.

But they both know _that's _not going to happen, if for no other reason than the cold.

Abbie checks the weather report on her phone. "It's nine degrees out, not counting the wind chill," she declares. _Battery getting low. It'll be dead by morning._

"That is perilously cold," Crane replies. "And unfortunately, lighting a fire for warmth in a place such as this…"

"Yeah. Bad idea. Too much old, dry paper," she nods, looking nervously down at the blankets spread between them. Inviting them. Taunting them.

Crane clears his throat and suddenly excuses himself to pee ("Excuse me, I must attend to some personal matters") and Abbie decides to do the same, also washing her face as best she can with lukewarm water and paper towels. Lamenting her inability to brush her teeth, she rinses her mouth out with water, deciding it'll have to do for the night.

When she returns to the archives, Crane is standing stiffly beside the pile of blankets, her own personal Toy Soldier, straight and proper, unmoving.

Unmoving except his eyes, which flit immediately to her when she appears in the candlelit dimness. He watches her extinguish said candles as she makes her way to him, her lovely face again and again illuminated in a golden glow, her full lips pursed, then – whoosh – blackness as she blows out each flame.

When Abbie reaches Crane, she sees he's removed his boots, but is waiting for her before making himself comfortable.

Like a gentleman.

She sits and takes off her own boots, setting them next to the chair. She takes Crane's coat off and lays it across the chair.

"After you, Miss Mills," he says softly, nodding towards their "bed." He moves the last remaining candle down to the floor beside the blankets as Abbie lies down on her side, facing away from him. She thinks she can see her breath now, but wonders if it's her imagination. _Or perhaps, it really is that cold in here._

A moment later, Crane slides in beside her and pulls the two blankets up over them. She feels the movement of his body as he turns to blow out the candle.

"Leave it, please," Abbie says, not willing to admit she's just a tiny bit afraid of complete darkness.

"Very well," he answers, lying down behind her.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks after one very awkward minute, his voice perilously soft. He's not touching her, but she can tell he's lying on his back, trying to be proper.

Abbie pauses, weighing her answer. _Tell a lie and freeze or tell the truth and risk spontaneous combustion?_ "No," she finally says. "I'm freezing my ass off."

He turns on his side, shifts a bit closer, and feels the trembling of her body. "Indeed, you are shivering," he notes, concerned.

She can feel the warmth radiating from his body and scoots backwards, driven by nothing more than seeking out that warmth.

When Crane's arm wraps around her waist, pulling her body fully against his, she is suddenly _quite_ warm.

"Better?" His voice is still so soft and now _so close_ behind her.

"Yes, thank you," she whispers. Suddenly, she is wide awake.

So is Crane. He's hyper-aware of every breath his partner takes, every shift, every twitch of her supple body so close, so _intimately_ close to his.

Several tense minutes pass. "Crane, are you still awake?" she asks quietly.

"Yes."

"I need to turn. I can't sleep on this side. Sorry, I should have chosen the other side; I wasn't thinking…"  
"Quite all right," he says, lifting his arm so she can turn. _Oh, dear. Oh, dear._

She automatically snuggles into him, fitting her small body into the spaces of his long, lean frame. Crane's one arm is pressed to the floor beneath her neck and the other has wrapped itself around her torso without him realizing it.

"Are you always so warm?" she asks. Her eyes are closed and she feels completely encapsulated by him, lying in the safe circle of his arms, inhaling his scent. It's woodsy and clean and undeniably _him._ She fights the urge to press closer, to nuzzle his neck, maybe press her lips to his Adam's apple…

"Usually," he answers, unknowingly interrupting her puzzling reverie, his eyes also closed. _She smells of raspberries and… something else... pears?_ It is an unusual combination to Crane's 18th-century brain, but one he would automatically equate with her. He recalls smelling it whenever she leans in close to point something out in a book or breezes past him, followed by a scented cloud.

_Try to sleep, Ichabod._ "Good night, Miss Mills," he murmurs, then, without thinking, he leans his head down and softly kisses her forehead.

He feels her go very still and immediately regrets his action. She moves her head, looking up at him, and he opens his eyes, ready to meet his fate.

She stares, her eyes wide, lips parted slightly. The silence stretches.

His lips tingle. Her forehead burns where she was kissed.

Crane breaks. "Miss Mills, I ap—"

She grabs his shirt, using it as leverage to pull herself up and crash her lips against his, stopping his words.

He gasps in surprise, and Abbie takes the opportunity to slide her tongue between his surprised lips, boldly deepening the kiss. A moment later, his brain catches up and he's kissing her back just as fervently, wondering if he has fallen asleep and this is some sort of cruel dream.

"Abbie…" he croaks, attempting to speak while still kissing her, "what… when…?"

She gently pulls away, her soft brown eyes boring into his earnest blue ones. Waiting for him to articulate his question.

He slowly blinks at her, his hands caressing her back. He kisses her once on the lips.

"Were you trying to ask me something, Mr. Crane?" she asks breathlessly.

"You seem to have scattered my thoughts," he murmurs, trailing his lips along her cheek, reluctant to leave her skin, now that he's had a taste of it.

"Ichabod," she whispers his name as he moves lower, kissing her neck, his beard slightly scratchy against her soft skin. "I had no idea you…"

"I had _some_ idea you did," he says, lifting his head for a moment, "but I was not completely certain." He kisses her lips once more, then returns to her neck, humming pleasurably against her skin when he feels her fingers thread into his hair, pulling the tie holding his hair back.

"I don't think _I_ even fully… mmm… realized how much I… oh, right _there_…"

Crane sucks lightly at her collarbone, quickly learning what she likes, where her sensitive points are. _She's so… vocal… so forward… I quite like it._

His hand on her back grips her shirt, pulling until it untucks from her jeans. Hungry for more of her skin, this same hand slides under her shirt, caressing her back.

She pulls his face back up to hers. "Kiss me some more," she breathes, and he is only too happy to comply, closing his lips over hers once again.

He kisses her deeply, passionately, losing himself in her the way he's wanted to for so long. His hand on her back creeps higher, still exploring.

_What's this? Oh, that curious undergarment._ His nimble fingers toy with the strap a moment. It separates quite suddenly, causing Crane to jump and Abbie to giggle.

"I…" he stammers, alarmed, pulling his hand away from her back.

"Crane, there are men from _this_ century who can't figure that out with _two_ hands," she laughs.

His face puzzles down at her for a moment. "What did I just do?"

"You _just_ earned yourself a free trip to second base," she says, gazing steadily into his eyes, taking his hand, and slowly sliding it up under the front of her now-completely-untucked shirt, not stopping until his palm is softly cupping her breast. She holds it there a moment, then removes her hand, daring him to pull away.

"Miss Mills," he grunts. "Abbie… I…" He is trying to protest, but his hand has a mind of its own, caressing and squeezing gently.

Abbie kisses him again, stopping his feeble (and not at all convincing) protests. "You know enough about this century to know we're not doing anything _scandalous_," she whispers against his lips.

"Temptress," Crane groans. _Growls_. He sucks on her lush lower lip as his thumb teases her already-hardened nipple.

"Oh, you know it, Baby," she purrs, her hand sliding down his chest, feeling the firm muscles, surprisingly well-defined given his slender build.

"Abbie!" he exclaims when her hand boldly grasps his manhood through the material of his trousers.

"I can stop if you don't want—"

"Don't you dare," he cuts her off, rolling her onto her back and pressing his hips into her hand.

Crane busies himself shoving at Abbie's shirt and opened bra until he uncovers her breasts. He groans his appreciation before ducking his head to cover them with kisses.

Abbie moans, her fingers working to open his pants. She then notices that while he's worshipping her breasts with his tongue, one of his hands is currently sliding the zipper of her jeans down.

"Abbie," he lifts his head to gaze down at her, his eyes dark with arousal but glowing with emotion, "before we do… what I think we're going to do… and before we're so far gone that you think I do not mean my words…" He pauses and swallows.

She reaches up and strokes his cheek. "I love you, Ichabod," she says, beating him to the punch. "I have for a long time, actually. I think I just realized it tonight. Well, admitted it to mys—mm!"

He kisses her lips hard, full of passion. "I love you, Abbie," he whispers. "I love you more than reason, more than life." He murmurs these things in between gentle kisses.

"Make love to me, Ichabod," Abbie whispers low in his ear, her lips brushing the outer shell. She flicks her tongue against his ear, and he grunts something unintelligible before nipping her neck lightly and reaching for her jeans again.

Crane shoves her jeans and panties down in one motion, and she lifts her hips to accommodate him. He gets them as far as her knees, and she pulls one leg completely out of her jeans, muttering something about being "good enough," into his lips while she pushes at his pants until she feels the skin of his firm backside beneath her palms.

She grasps his shaft, measuring him with her hand as she strokes him, and he groans long and low, his head dropping onto her shoulder.

_Oh, wow…_ Abbie will admit to having fantasized about her partner, to having wondered exactly how much he was packing in there, but he has _well_ exceeded her imagination.

Crane regains his mind, returns his lips to hers, and reaches down to touch her now, groaning again when he feels how wet and ready she is for him.

"Oh…" Abbie moans, pulling her lips away again, his surprisingly skillful fingers driving her wild. "Oh, now, Baby," she gasps, opening her legs wide and guiding him home.

"Yes," he agrees, plunging his hips forward, entering her swiftly but smoothly, driven by his pure need for her, vowing _next_ time, he'll give her the slow and thorough loving she deserves. _Next_ time, he will educate her on the _art_ of lovemaking. _Next_ time, they will be in a proper bed, in the privacy of one of their homes.

_This_ time, they are needy and frantic, passionate but messy, half-dressed on the floor of the archives, coupling as though the world may end tomorrow.

Because it just might.

"Ichabod," she moans his name, her short fingernails digging into his skin beneath his shirt, her hips meeting his, thrust for thrust, as he drives into her, filling her with himself again and again.

"God," he gasps, then lowers his face to hers to catch her lips in a searing kiss.

"Oh… yes… good _God,_ man…" she cries out, tearing her lips away. Her head is spinning with the sensations he's causing within her.

"Abbie… oh, I do love you so…" he whispers in her ear, picking up his pace further still, ready to explode into a shower of stars just as soon as…

"Ah! Oh, God, yes!" Abbie shatters beneath him, shouting her release, her thighs gripping his hips now.

Crane thrusts once more, deep as he can and follows right behind her with a deep, almost primal growl that nearly makes Abbie come _again,_ his head tucked into her neck.

He gently collapses over her and rolls them, disengaging himself from within her, but holding her close so she is lying on his chest. He reaches out and straightens the blankets a bit, making sure he and Abbie are covered.

"I'm sufficiently warm now," Abbie says, snuggling against him.

Crane chuckles, kissing the top of her head. "I should think so."

"Mmm," she hums, as content as she's felt in a very long time. Possibly ever.

"We probably should straighten our garments," he says after a few minutes of quiet, filled with caresses and small, soft kisses. "It would not do to fall asleep in this state only to be discovered in the morning."

"You're right," she answers, but makes no move to do anything about it. "But, can you imagine the look on Irving's face?" she asks, lifting her head to look up at him, her eyes alight with mischief.

He chuckles and kisses her. "It would be a sight, yes, but perhaps it would be more droll aimed in someone _else's_ direction," he points out. He kisses her again, slowly, savoring her. "I could write sonnets about your lips," he murmurs.

She smiles and kisses him in return. "Thank you," she says, not knowing what else to say in response to such a compliment.

He sighs and shifts her off of him so they can put themselves back together. Just as Abbie is reaching behind her to fasten her bra, the lights flicker on, off again, then, back on.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "I guess I forgot to flip the switch off when I came back in."

"Allow me," Crane says, first switching on a small table lamp nearby. He walks over to the switch on the wall, fully dressed but not bothering to tuck his shirt back in, turns off the lights, and saunters back to his waiting Abbie. She leans over and blows out the last candle.

"At least we won't freeze to death," she says, cuddling back against him nevertheless.

"Indeed not," he answers, lifting her chin to kiss her once more. "Good night, my love."

"Good night, Ichabod. I love you."

xXx

Captain Irving does discover them the next morning, once he is finally able to reach the station. He pushes the door open and scans the seemingly-empty room, not seeing them.

_Strange. Mills' car is still in the lot._ He steps inside to investigate further, and his eyes stop when he sees the lump of blankets on the floor. He can just see the top of Abbie's head tucked under Crane's chin.

He snorts a quiet laugh and heads back to the door. _If they had listened to me, they wouldn't have gotten stuck here and had to sleep on the floor…_

Five feet from the archives' door, Irving stops short in the hallway. _Wait. Oh. No. No, they didn't. They wouldn't. _Would_ they?_


	3. Gifts

Gifts

He's got a roaring fire, crackling and hot, in the fireplace when she arrives.

"Damn, Crane, you can _build_ a fire," Abbie comments, entering the cabin. It's Crane's first Christmas in the 21st Century, and she doesn't want him to spend it alone.

"Thank you, Miss Mills," he says, peering out of the door. "Is Miss Jenny not joining us?" he asks.

"Miss Jenny seems to be MIA this week," Abbie sighs, setting on the coffee table the gift she is carrying. _We never got him a Christmas tree. How sad._

"Miss Mills…" he sighs, looking down his nose at her.

"Missing in Action," Abbie explains. She knows he hates acronyms because he doesn't understand the meanings of so many of them. She uses them anyway, partly because she knows as soon as one is explained, he'll remember it forever and partly because the world is acronym-crazy right now. He needs to get with the times, no matter how reluctant he is to do so.

But mostly, she does it to tease, because she doesn't often get the opportunity to flummox him. It's a pattern. A game, if you will. He gets haughty; she gets colloquial. They both know it, but it is never discussed.

Truly, she wants him to be comfortable in this new life and time, and she's fairly certain he knows this. And that's _really_ why she continually speaks to him as if he _is_ from this time and understands everything she says. _Most of the time, he keeps up._

"I'm sorry we never got you a tree," she adds, following him to the kitchen.

Crane had insisted he would cook. Abbie showed him how to use everything in the kitchen, and once he'd (patiently, placating her) demonstrated he was not going to set the cabin on fire, she left him to it.

"I do not require a decorated conifer to enjoy the holiday, Lieutenant," he says. "The only 'Christmas tree' with which I am familiar was erected in a house in Connecticut by a _Hessian_ soldier who happened to be imprisoned there."

"That's right. Christmas trees are German," Abbie mutters. _Bah humbug to you, too, Mr. Scrooge._

"I am simply pleased to be able to spend the holiday in your good company," he adds. "Thank you for coming over, Lieutenant. Christmas is about friends and family, not decorations."

_I retract my previous "Mr. Scrooge" thought._ "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, Crane," she answers, returning his warm smile, leaning against the sink. "What are you cooking? It smells really good."

"Roast beef with vegetables," he says, peeking into the oven. "Ah," he declares, pulling a roasting pan out and placing it on the stovetop.

"Can I help with anything?"

"You may set the table, if you like," he says, not turning around.

"Okay, then," she says, feeling slightly useless. "I have to say I'm surprised you can cook."

"Hmm," he answers noncommittally. "Well, seeing as how you surprise me on a daily basis, I am pleased to be able to turn the tables."

"How do I surprise you?" she asks, curious.

"In a myriad of ways, Miss Mills, a myriad of ways," he answers, chuckling and scooping carrots and potatoes into a serving dish. "For starters, your garments were quite a surprise."

"Yes, _trousers_, I know," she laughs, looking down at her jeans.

"Then, there is your vast knowledge of the world around us, which you are always so kind to share with me."

"That's nothing. If I was somehow transported back into _your_ time, I'm sure you—"

"The consequences of _that_ happenstance would be quite dire, Lieutenant, and I advise you not to dwell on that thought," he cuts her off, his tone suddenly quite serious.

_He's right._ The thought chills her blood, and she decides to take his advice and let it go. "Anyway, those things aren't that impressive. My knowledge, as you put it, Crane, comes from experience," she smiles. "Internet, Starbuck's, donut holes… all just part of my everyday life," she says, shrugging, setting the last fork in place.

"Yes, well, it is impressive to _me,_ Miss Mills," he says, turning to look at her. "You must remember I come from a time where women did not do…" he pauses, momentarily at a loss for words, "…the things you do. And yet here you are, a petite young woman out doing battle every day. It is most impressive."

"Thank you," she says, knowing the slightly sexist overtones in his statement are just a product of _his_ past experience. Actually, she hasn't been offended by anything he's said since their first awkward meeting.

Crane quirks his head at her. "Truly, Miss Mills, you are as brave and capable a soldier as any man with whom I fought alongside in the war. I would have been as honored to have you at my side in battle then as I am now."

Abbie smiles. _That's quite a compliment, even though we both know it would have been an impossibility._ "Thank you, again," she says. "And, for what it's worth, you do surprise me frequently, not just today. The simple fact you haven't gone completely bonkers trying to adjust to modern society impresses the hell out of me." She steps across the small kitchen and places her hand on his elbow. "And I'm glad you're _at_ my side in this, as well as _on_ my side," she adds, squeezing his arm.

Crane gazes down at her for a moment and offers her a small, almost tender, smile. He places his hand over hers for just a second. It's very warm and comforting, and completely engulfs Abbie's small hand. She smiles back at him and steps aside to allow him to finish his preparations.

He carries the platter of meat to the table and Abbie decides to help, grabbing the vegetables and gravy. She clandestinely snitches a carrot, unable to resist its lure. _Yum…_

xXx

Dinner _was_ wonderful. The pot roast reminded Abbie of one of her last foster homes, with Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. It was the nicest one she'd been sent to, and Mrs. Thompson was an excellent cook as well as kind to Abbie. She found herself telling Crane all about it over dinner, the words just spilling from her lips before she could stop them.

Although Crane seemed pleased Abbie enjoyed his cooking, he was more interested in what she had to say about her past. He had listened attentively the entire time, drinking her words in like nourishment. Abbie was not aware of the fact she was opening up to him until it was too late and she found herself staring into a pair of very interested blue eyes.

_Damn. When he listens, he _really_ listens._ Abbie is pleasantly surprised. Most of the time, conversations consist of one person talking while the other person pretends to listen, when in actuality, the "listener" is preparing what he or she wants to say.

But not Crane. He Listens. With a capital L. Its novelty is almost unsettling.

After the leftovers are stowed and the dishes are washed and put away, they stand in the kitchen for a moment. Neither of them seem to know what to do next.

"I brought you a gift," Abbie says, suddenly remembering.

"That was not necessary, Miss Mills, but thank you," he says softly. His face belies his words. Abbie can see he is touched she brought him something. And curious. Excited, even.

_I'm pretty excited, myself. I know he's going to love it._

"Come on," she says, pulling him by the hand into the living room.

"The fire is dying," Crane comments. "May I?" he asks.

"Of course." She sits on the sofa, waiting while he stokes and rekindles the fire, adding more wood to return it to its former glory. When he joins her on the couch, she hands him his package, a medium-sized square wrapped in festive paper bearing penguins in Santa hats. "Merry Christmas," she adds, smiling.

"Thank you," he says softly. He momentarily puzzles at the wrapping, and she finds herself wondering if he even knows what a penguin is. Or Santa Claus, for that matter.

"Um, those are penguins," she says.

"Yes, I am aware," he says, smirking at her. "I am acquainted with the existence of these flightless water birds."

"Sorry. You were puzzling at the paper."

"Ah. It's quite charming." He smiles over at her.

"Open it," she urges, unable to contain herself anymore.

"Patience is a virtue, Miss Mills," he says, opening the gift in the tidiest and calmest way possible.

_Frustrating._ "Just tear it, Crane," she says, folding her hands tightly to keep them from ripping the paper herself.

He raises an eyebrow at her and continues at his leisurely pace. She can see he's trying to bite back his smile.

"You're doing this on purpose," she says, nudging him.

"I confess nothing," he answers, coughing into his fist to conceal his laughter.

"Ah, books, excellent, thank you," he says, grinning broadly, his eyes alight. He reads the title on the box containing four volumes. "_Lord of the Rings._ I assume this is literature you feel I must know?"

"This is literature _everyone _must know," she says, reaching over and tapping the box. "You'll love it. It's the classic battle of good versus evil, set in a _very_ detailed fantasy world.

Crane already has _The Hobbit_ out and is perusing the inside cover. Abbie splurged and got him hardcover, knowing he'd prefer it. _If you can't splurge on the man who will, hopefully, help you stop the end of the world from happening, who can you splurge on, really?_

"Hmm… very interesting," he says. "I look forward to reading these." He replaces _The Hobbit_ and is about to withdraw and inspect _The Fellowship of the Ring_, but stops, pushing the volume back into the box. "Oh, forgive me. I have a gift for you as well."

"You do?" Abbie asks, surprised. He hadn't said anything about having something for her, even when she told him she'd brought him a gift. She's both excited and nervous. _What could he possibly have for me?_

He stands and returns with something lumpy, wrapped in newspaper and tied with string.

Abbie smiles and holds out her hands.

"Eager," he chuckles.

"I like presents," she admits, looking down.

Still chuckling, he places the parcel in her outstretched hands and is rewarded with a brighter smile.

He sits beside her, watching as she tugs the string and rips the paper away, letting it fall to the floor.

She gasps softly when she sees it, immediately running her fingers over the surface of the wood, expertly and intricately carved. It's remarkably smooth, almost appearing polished.

"You made this?" she asks, but she doesn't really need to. She knows he made it. He made it for _her._ She looks up at him with wide eyes, her fingers tight around the sculpture, almost as if she is afraid it will vanish.

"Yes. It's a phoenix," he says, studying her, unsure whether she likes it or not.

She nods, indicating she knows what it is. "It's beautiful," she whispers, "thank you."

Crane clears his throat. "Our friend at the auto dealership noticed my interest in a book on animal symbolism, so he allowed me to keep it. The thunderbird, or phoenix, symbolizes rebirth and renewal, of course, but it also represents strength, energy, spiritual growth, new life or life cycles… and overcoming impossible odds," he explains.

Abbie feels like his eyes are boring into her soul. She has never received such a thoughtful gift. She's received some _nice_ gifts, even one or two _great_ ones, but never one that was clearly so well thought-out. So _personal._

She turns it over and over in her hands, each turn revealing a new detail she missed the previous time. The lick of a flame. The fan of a feather. The proud tilt of a beak.

"Naturally, I thought of you," Crane adds, still watching her intently.

She attempts to swallow the lump in her throat. "I don't know what to say," she whispers. "It's…" She sighs, collecting herself, and looks up at him. "I only met you a few months ago, and somehow you already know me better than people I've known for years."

He smiles. "Not entirely surprising, if you would but think about it. Entwined fates and all."

Abbie smiles and chuckles a little. "Yeah," she allows. "I suppose you do get to know someone pretty well when you're trying to save the world together."

"Indeed, Miss Mills." He clears his throat and continues. "I would also like to tell you that your guidance, your… friendship… during this time has been immeasurably helpful to me. Well, not only helpful, but… I want you to know you are my dearest friend, and I hold you in the highest esteem."

She smiles at him, surprised… but not really. _Still, it's nice to hear. Very nice._ "Thank you. You're my best friend, too," she tells him softly, reaching over and placing her hand over his. "I don't know what I would do without you," she adds, surprising even herself.

Crane gives her another one of his usually-rare smiles, though Abbie thinks she's seen more of them tonight than in all the months she's known him. "Indeed, without you, I would be lost in every sense of the word," he says, turning his hand over to hold hers, his thumb skating lightly over her skin once.

Abbie looks down at the totem he's carved for her. _I can't believe he actually _made_ this. For _me. "I love my gift. Thank you, Crane," she says.

"You are most welcome, Miss Mills."

She smiles warmly at him, still touched more than she can express with words. She sets her gift on the table, leans over, and kisses his cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Ichabod," she whispers. She withdraws her hand from his and sits back, returning to her place, her cheeks inexplicably warm as she avoids his gaze.

Crane takes her hand and lifts it to his lips, bestowing the softest of kisses on her knuckles. "Happy Christmas, Abbie."


	4. Ebenezer Crane: Part 1

Ebenezer Crane

Part 1 - Past

_ Dogs. The sound of barking dogs invades my ears as my vision clears, and I find myself in a forest. This is not the dark, creepy forest outside Sleepy Hollow nor is it the brighter, more welcoming forest in which my cabin sits._

_ Neither is it the otherworldly forest of Purgatory where my Katrina is imprisoned._

_ Slowly, I take a few cautious steps forward, trying to gain my bearings. This place is familiar. The sound of the dogs hearkens to a long-ago memory, a memory of…_

_ I _know_ this place. This is the forest outside my boyhood home._

_ "Captain Crane." I turn._

_ "General Washington?" I ask, puzzled but snapping to attention and giving a smart salute nevertheless. Reflexes. "What…?"_

_ "This is a dream," he answers._

_ "I don't understand, Sir. Usually, it is Katrina who visits my dreams."_

_ "That I cannot explain, my friend. It is _your_ dream. I am here to guide you and nothing more," he says. "Come."_

_ I follow, because I do not know what else to do. The dogs are louder, and I realize there is a hunt in progress._

_ A moment later, I see them: eight dogs, foxhounds, running through the snow, their noses trained, occasionally barking. Then, three horses follow: two large, bearing my father and my Uncle Alistair, and one slightly smaller, bearing my nine-year-old self._

_ By God, I was a gangly lad._

_ We somehow follow them at pace, and in moments I realize this is my first hunt with my father and uncle. It was on Christmas Eve. Mother had protested that I was too young, but Father won out in the end._

_ I recall we did not catch anything, but I did enjoy the chase. I'd never ridden so fast before. It was quite exhilarating._

_ The dogs are gathered around a thicket, snuffling, whimpering, and scratching. We dismount, rifles at the ready._

_ I remember both anticipating and dreading firing my weapon. The thought of shooting the rifle was exciting, but the prospect of using it to take the life of a small, defenseless fox was, well, terrifying. Intentionally ending a life, no matter how small, was not something for which I felt fully prepared to do._

_ I never got the opportunity. Uncle Alistair closed in first, and the fox bolted, squeezing itself through a small space in some rocks, into its burrow._

_ "We'll never get him in there," Father declares, leaning on his rifle. "Unless you fancy wiggling your way into that space in order to pull him out with your hands," he turns and asks my young self._

_ My eyes grow wide and he laughs. "I jest, Ichabod. I'd never make you do such a thing," he says, crouching down beside me. "Foxes are deceptively gentle-looking, Son. If you go into his den, he will not hesitate to bite you. And if there is a female with pups, then even more caution must be used."_

_ "Why is that, Father?" I ask. Was my voice ever so high?_

_ "A mother will protect her young at all costs. Like your own mother," he says, an impish smirk playing across his lips._

_ I smile at the memory. It is good to hear my father's voice again._

_ "Sheffield," Uncle Alistair calls out now, "we should head back. We're losing sunlight and you know Emily will be cross with you if we are out too long after dark."_

_ "I am sorry we didn't catch our fox today, Ichabod," Father tells me, his hand on my narrow shoulder._

_ "I enjoyed myself nevertheless, Father," I answer. Father stands and I walk towards my horse._

_ Her name was Willow. She was a good mare, and I outgrew her too soon. I remember being so sad the day I discovered I was too big for her. My new horse, a gelding called Chestnut, was fine and swift, but Willow always had a special place in my heart._

_ I had nearly forgotten her until now, and I find myself longing to step over, stroke her soft nose, and feed her an apple_

_ I wonder if Miss Mills would help me acquire a horse._

_ I watch as my foot accidentally kicks something under the light coating of snow on the ground._

_ I smile, watching my memory play out like one of those programs on that television Miss Mills has._

_ My young self bends down and picks up a fallen pinecone. It's a large one, perfectly shaped. I watch my long, slender, slightly knobby fingers trace its shape, exploring, feeling the rough texture of it. "Prickly," I mutter, raising an eyebrow at it._

_ "What have you got there, Boy?" Uncle Alistair asks, looking down at me from his horse._

_ "A big pinecone," I say, holding it up for him to see._

_ "Are there more?" my father pipes up. "They make excellent kindling."_

_ "Perhaps," I say, kicking at the snow some more. I uncover two more, and Father tosses me a sack, likely the one he was saving for the fox._

_ "At least we won't return home empty handed, eh, Sheffield?" Uncle Alistair asks, nodding at Father._

_ I watch myself gathering pinecones, and the vision in front of me starts to grow dim and gray, as if a thick fog is rolling in._

_ "But…" I protest, looking towards General Washington, helpless._

_ "We have more to see," he says. "Come."_

_ Once again, I follow him, my trusted General. He walks with purpose and I trail behind, my eyes searching for a sign of… anything._

_ We step through a wall as though it was not there, and I find myself in a parlor. _My_ parlor._

_ Katrina appears, a vision in an emerald green dress, carrying a brightly wrapped package, which she sets on the table._

_ I recognize the gift. This is our first Christmas as man and wife._

_ I wish I could smell the lovely aromas my memory is conjuring. Roast beef in the oven, wassail on the stove, pine boughs on the hearth._

_ "Ichabod," she calls, clasping her hands in front of her bosom, her habit when excited._

_ "Yes, my love," my voice calls from the foyer, and I appear a moment later, my arms full of wood. I look much the same as I do now, and I remember the year is 1780. The next Christmas I will see after this one is in the inexplicable year of 2013. It will be full of garish colored lights, badly-sung carols with nonsensical words, and an obese old man in a garish red suit._

_ I watch myself stomp the snow from my boots and stride into the parlor, dropping the wood noisily into the wood box._

_ "Forgive me," I murmur when Katrina looks at me reproachfully for the noise._

_ "Forgiven," she smiles. "I'm sure that must have been heavy," she adds, reaching up to help me remove my coat._

_ I step out to hang up my coat, and return with a package of my own, having spied hers on the table._

_ I hold it up and smile at her, setting it down beside hers on the table._

_ "I was hoping to exchange gifts before dinner," Katrina says, smiling winsomely at me._

_ She is as beautiful as I remember. Unfortunately, I find myself studying her now for a completely different reason. Looking for signs that she is hiding something from me. Signs of her witchcraft, her other life about which I knew nothing. I start to move, wishing to head up to our room, to her vanity table. To the kitchen. Even to the attic. Looking for clues. Evidence._

_ General Washington's hand on my arm stills me. "You will find nothing, Captain," he says._

_ I look at him, surprised he knows my thoughts. I regard him a moment. "Very well," I say, and turn my attention back to Katrina and myself. I have just opened my gift, under protest. Katrina had _insisted_ I open mine first._

_ "Thank you, my love, it's wonderful," I hear myself say, withdrawing a scarf from the box. "It's… very long," I add, starting to laugh._

_ I smile. That scarf was ridiculous._

_ "I just couldn't stop!" she exclaims, laughing. I stand and hold up the scarf. It is made of soft gray wool, and appears to be at least ten feet long._

_ I grin and put the scarf around my neck, wrapping it around and around until my head is nearly encapsulated by wool._

_ Still laughing, Katrina stands, parts the layers of scarf with her fingers, and kisses me._

_ "I will certainly stay warm," I say, my voice muffled._

_ "That is the intention," she says, unwrapping my head now. "Hello."_

_ "Hello," I answer, leaning down to kiss her again, this time, longer. "You still need to open your gift," I remind her._

_ "I thought I had just done so." She smiles at me and sits again while I bundle up my new scarf and place it on the table._

_ I sit and place her gift in her delicate hands._

_ Of course, I remember what I gifted her. To my mind, this was just last year, not over 200 years ago._

_ "Oh, Ichabod, it's lovely," Katrina says, running her hand across the leather cover._

_ "It is a journal," I say, foolishly. She knows what it is._

_ "Yes, I've been wanting one. How did you know?"_

_ "Because I am your husband," I declare._

_ Am I truly that arrogant? Miss Mills has called me arrogant. Perhaps she is correct._

_ I recognize the journal as the one the Masons had. The one in which she had written the account of Arthur Bernard and myself. I now know why she had wanted a journal._

_ The thought gives me pause. She knew, even then, that my tale needed to be preserved. I wonder if she knew why._

_ I wonder a great many things now._

_ "Thank you. You know me so well, my love," she says, leaning over to kiss me._

_ Did I?_

_ I watch us kissing on the couch, and the fog returns._

_ "No protest this time, Crane?" Washington asks, angling his head at me._

_ "Not this time, Sir," I sigh. I feel a strange, bittersweet melancholy settle over me. I thought I would feel happier at seeing such a pleasant memory. Instead, it brings her deceit, her… betrayal? into sharp focus. The things I've learned feel all the more painful when juxtaposed with the domestic bliss I thought we had shared._

_ "My time is up," Washington tells me._

_ "Will I be waking?" I ask, stepping towards him as he retreats._

_ "Not yet. You have more to see, Captain, but you will be guided by another," he says, raising his hand in farewell._

_ "Thank you, General," I call._

_ Even if I am only dreaming, it was good to see him again._


	5. Ebenezer Crane: Part 2

Part 2 - Present

_ "Always looking to the past," a voice, different but familiar, tuts at me, and I spin on my heel._

_ "Mr. Parrish," I say. I am not surprised in the slightest. Truly, if anyone was to wander in the land of dreams, it would be him._

_ "Mr. Crane," he greets in his gruff manner, standoffish yet somehow warm. "Follow, but do not be afraid. We are but visitors here. Nothing can harm you." He snorts a laugh. "Not even me."_

_ "Well, that's certainly reassuring," I say, absently rubbing my neck as I follow him through the fog._

_ We emerge in the cemetery, near Katrina's headstone._

_ "What time are we in now?" I ask, unable to discern the year from my surroundings. The cemetery and church are even older than myself._

_ "This year," he answers brusquely. "2013."_

_ "Interesting," I say, stepping towards the familiar headstone, wondering why he has brought me here._

_ I step closer to the headstone as though pulled. I seem to be moving towards it without moving my feet._

_ Another inch and I pass through the large headstone._

_ A jolt passes through my body and I find myself in the forest of Purgatory. My pulse quickens, and my eyes dart about, instinctively alert, looking for Moloch. Abraham._

_ Katrina._

_ "Nothing can harm you," Parrish reminds me. "Our presence here will be undetected."_

_ "Why are we here?" I ask._

_ "We are here because this place is significant to this coming Christmas," he answers._

_ Not terribly helpful. As I expected._

_ I decide to walk. Anything that moves catches my attention. My eyes flick from tree to tree, finding nothing but swaying branches and falling leaves._

_ This place is bleak and gray, suspended in a dismal, colorless autumn. Autumn, the season of death and decay._

_ I continue to walk. If I am going to find anyone, I'd definitely prefer it be Katrina. The forest is endless._

_ "Katrina!" I call._

_ "She can't hear you," Parrish chuckles behind me._

_ I curse my foolishness. Of course, she can't hear me. I'm not _really_ here._

_ I step around a tree and suddenly find myself in the church where I met with Katrina and learned the name and fate of my son._

_ It's empty. The candles are lit, but the church is deserted._

_ "Where is Katrina?" I ask Parrish._

_ "Why do you think I have the answers you seek?"_

_ I open my mouth, then close it. He fusses with his cuffs a moment, then stills. Waiting for me to say something. Do something._

_ I sigh and head for the doors. Katrina isn't here. She wasn't in the forest, and she's not here._

_ Miss Mills mentioned a house when she informed me about Katrina contacting her. "The house," I say, pushing my hand against the doors._

_ My hand passes completely through, and I tumble after, nearly falling. "Bloody hell," I mutter crossly, scowling as Parrish calmly walks through the doors._

_ Inexplicably, the house is right in front of me. It is clearly the house we shared. Briefly._

_ I quickly walk towards it, nearly running. Parrish follows, walking at his pace, unconcerned about the growing distance between us._

_ I pass through the doors without breaking my stride._

_ Dear God. This house is my house, yet… _not_ my house. It is a shell. A shadow of its former self. I wander from room to room, passing through each room twice._

_ Katrina is not here._

_ She's not in the forest, the church, or the house._

_ "She's not here," I say to Parrish, who is beside me again._

_ "No, she isn't."_

_ Katrina is not anywhere._

_ Not in Purgatory. She's gone._

_ "Did I free her?"_

_ "That, I cannot tell you, for I do not know," Parrish answers._

_ She's not here._

_ Gone._

_ "I don't understand," I whisper. The fog swirls again, and I grateful. I would very much like to leave this soulless place._

_ When the fog clears, we are in the archives. There is but one lamp lit in the corner, and I move towards it._

_ I stop when I see myself, weary, a bit dirty and slightly tattered, slumped in a chair, an open book on my lap._

_ Occasionally, I glance down and turn a page. I'm not reading it; I am going through the motions because I am lost. I can see the haunted look on my face._

_ I look positively haggard. Worse than I did at Thanksgiving._

_ Where is Miss Mills? Why am I alone here? What has happened?_

_ Then it clicks: My downtrodden state. Katrina gone from Purgatory._

_ Oh, no. No, no, no…_

_ I feel as though all the breath has left me. I would sit, but my body would pass through the chair._

_ I turn to Parrish. "No."_

_ "Yes. Perhaps."_

_ "But…"_

_ "I am sorry, Ichabod. You knew this was always a possibility."_

_ I nod mutely and hang my head._

_ "When the time comes… _if_ the time comes… you must let her go. If you do not, you will never recover. You will be a withered shell of a man, clinging to things that once were. Things that can never be."_

_ I look up at him again. His simple, straightforward manner is… terse, but comforting. He does not mince words, and I respect him immensely for that._

_ "The price we pay for living," I say, echoing words he once said to me._

_ He nods curtly. "You will have to let go of Katrina to allow _yourself_ to have a life."_

_ "Is that not selfish of me?" I ask._

_ "Not when you are one of the two Witnesses," he correctly points out. "You must be able to carry out your mission, Mr. Crane. That is of utmost importance."_

_ "Of course," I answer softly. My eyes drift back to my forlorn form, now no longer bothering to feign study. I feel a strange sympathy for myself, but… also frustration. I find there is a small part of me who wants to march over, grab myself by the lapels, give myself a shake and yell, "Pull it together, man! You have work to do!"_

_ Obviously, Parrish's words have had some effect already._

_"It seems I am doomed to endure the holidays alone," I mutter after another moment of watching myself, sitting alone in the archives, miserable._

_ Parrish chuckles now, that same mocking, you-have-no-idea chuckle I heard mere seconds before he choked me into Purgatory. "You are not alone, Ichabod. You are just unwilling to open your eyes to see what is before you. There are people who care for you in _this_ time."_

_ The fog swirls around us again and I find myself standing in a modest sitting room bearing sparse holiday decorations. A small Christmas tree sitting atop a table and two stockings tacked to a wall seem to be the sum total of the yuletide décor. The recorded strains of a smoky-voiced man singing of roasting chestnuts reaches my ears._

_ I wonder if one can still acquire a roasted chestnut._

_ "I'm sure he's fine. He's a grown man."_

_ That's Miss Jenny's voice. Am I in Miss Mills' home? I hear the distinct sounds of cutlery scraping against china. Christmas dinner, perhaps?_

_ "I hate not knowing where he is. He's still learning his way around this century…" Miss Mills' voice answers. She sounds dreadfully worried._

_ About me?_

_ "He's probably just sulking. Shoot, I've never seen a man who can sulk like your boy Crane," Miss Jenny says._

_ "I think he has a pretty good reason, don't you?" Miss Mills replies sharply, coming to my defense._

_ Curious, I walk towards the voices, and see the two Mills sisters sitting at a table set for three._

_ Oh, dear. I was intended to join them and have, once again, not done so. My mother would be horrified at the turn my manners have taken._

_ Worse than that, Miss Mills appears to be quite unhappy. Miss Jenny is endeavoring to reassure her, even distract her, but the Lieutenant is having none of it, picking at her food and continually glancing at her phone._

_ "Well, this is about as fun as most of our Christmases," Miss Jenny snaps, tossing her napkin on the table and standing. "I need some pie, damn it."_

_ Miss Mills' phone rings and she jumps. "Mills. He is? Well, why didn't anyone look there first? He wasn't? Oh. Okay, thanks."_

_ "Ichy turn up all safe and sound?" Miss Jenny asks, returning to the table with a slice of pie. Sweet potato, if my memory serves, and it always does. I recall Miss Mills foisting a slice on me the day after Thanksgiving, telling me I had to help eat the leftovers._

_ "Yes, he's sulking in the archives now. They just checked again and found him there. No one knows when he snuck in, but he wasn't there half an hour ago," Miss Mills says, standing. She starts piling food onto a dish, which she covers before pulling her coat on._

_ "He probably went in through the tunnels," Miss Jenny says, her mouth full of pie._

_ "Yeah." Miss Mills takes the dish, grabs her keys, and starts for the door._

_ "Abbie," Miss Jenny calls to her._

_ "What?" Miss Mills answers curtly, impatient to be on her way._

_ "Here," Miss Jenny hands her a small plate covered with silver wrapping. "Don't forget the dessert."_

_ "Thanks," Miss Mills takes the plate, places it atop her dish, and disappears._

_ Then the room fades into the fog once again._

_ I wait for the fog to clear so I can see Miss Mills arriving at the archives to bring me food and companionship, but it does not clear. I turn to Parrish. "I'm not allowed to see…?"_

_ "I'm afraid not," Parrish says._

_ "Are these… visions… sure to come to pass?" I ask._

_ "The future is never certain, my boy. If you wish to prevent this scenario, you must make the choices you feel are right."_

_ "Can I save Katrina?"_

_ "Another question I am unable to answer, Crane."_

_ "Will I remember this when I wake?" I ask._

_ "Life is about choices, Ichabod. Each choice affects not only you, but those around you as well as people you will never meet. One choice can mean the difference between life and death…" His voice fades, and he is gone._


	6. Ebenezer Crane: Part 3

Part 3 - Future

_ I turn and turn, looking, searching through the fog. Surely this isn't the end of my dream. It cannot be, can it?_

_ "You lost, Crane?"_

_ I spin on my heel again. "Captain," I say, startled. Captain Irving's presence is as surprising as Henry Parrish's was not._

_ "Surprised to see me?"_

_ "Quite. It was my understanding that you endeavored to maintain your skepticism as long as possible," I say, raising an eyebrow at him._

_ "Hey, man, it's _your_ dream. I don't know why I'm here, either. If it were me, I'd have Beyoncé as my spirit guide."_

_ I do not know who this "Beyoncé" person is, but I will have to remember to ask Miss Mills about him when I wake. Or her. Likely a her, judging by the glimmer in the captain's eye._

_ That is, if I remember any of this when I wake. Parrish did not exactly answer that question._

_ "Let's go. We're running out of time, and you need to see something," Irving says, striding away at a brisk pace._

_ I hasten to follow until I am, once again, beside him. The fog clears quite suddenly, almost as if it knows the captain is a man who means business._

_ We are in a house. It's… familiar. I look around. I feel comfortable here, but something is different._

_ I turn and see the fireplace. This is the cabin. The cabin, heavily renovated. I survey my surroundings, my eyes now picking out details of the cabin I know amongst the updates. The living room is larger, now encompassing the area that currently holds the kitchen. I hear sounds from a door that does not yet exist in my humble home. Cooking sounds. Humming. At the back of the house is a staircase leading up._

_ A second floor was added? How is that possible?_

_ "What year is it?" I ask, looking at Irving._

_ "It's 2022. Nine years into the future. You know where you are?"_

_ "This is Sheriff Corbin's cabin, where I now live," I say._

_ "Very good," he smiles. "Nice renovation," he adds, nodding his appraisal. "Someone has good taste."_

_ Somehow I do not think he is referring to me. Movement catches my periphery and I turn towards it, intensely curious._

_ Miss Mills appears from the kitchen, beautiful as ever, her hair slightly shorter. Goodness, has she even aged a day? Her stomach, however, appears quite swollen, ripe with a child no doubt due to be born very soon. I smile, wondering who the fortunate father is. Did she perhaps reconcile with Detective Morales? If so, I pray he has learned to treat her with the love and care she deserves. If so, I…_

_ I am not certain how I feel about that possibility._

_ I feel a soft smile tug the corners of my lips as I watch her. She looks truly happy. Perhaps this means we did, in fact, stop the apocalypse._

_ Why am I being shown this vision, I wonder?_

_ The front door bursts open, scattering my thoughts. "Mama! I find!" A small boy, between two and three years old, comes running in, leaving a trail of snow behind him, a large pinecone clutched in his gloved hands._

_ "Gus, your boots!" Miss Mills exclaims, picking him up and hauling him back to the door to remove his boots._

_ She shouldn't be carrying him in her condition._

_ As she removes the boy's outerwear, I study him._

_ He's a beautiful child, with bright, inquisitive eyes and unruly raven curls. He has a significantly lighter complexion than Miss Mills. Perhaps Detective Morales _is_ the boy's father. Yet, there is something familiar about him, chattering away to his mother, showing her his find._

_ His ungloved fingers, long for a child so young, run over the rough surface of the pinecone, exploring, feeling the rough texture of it. I angle my head at him as I see him raise one tiny black eyebrow and mutter, "Prickle."_

_ My mouth drops open, and Captain Irving lets loose an audible snort of laughter behind me._

_ "Sorry, Treasure, he wanted to come right in and show you his discovery."_

_ If my heart beats in this dream-land, it has surely just stopped. I know that voice as well as I know my own. For it _is_ my own._

_ This child is _also_ my own. I have a son. With Miss Mills. How…? When…? My mind reels. I feel the same shock I felt when I found out about Jeremy, only… only this time I will _know_ my son. I will have the chance to love him, teach him, mold him into the fine man I know he will be._

_ I have another chance._

_ I will my eyes away from the child – my child – and look upon my own face, nine years hence. I am wearing modern clothes, a heavy black coat, and a gray scarf. My arms are loaded with wood._

_ A gray scarf that is _not_ ten feet long, likely bought at the Target store of which Miss Mills is so fond._

_ I have aged fairly well, if I dare say. Not as well as Miss Mills (Mrs. Crane?), but I still have the heartiness of vigor and health about me. I spy a gray strand or two in my (surprisingly, much shorter) hair and in my beard. There are slight lines around my eyes as I smile down at my family._

Family_._

_ The word takes my breath away. I have a family._

_ "All right there, Crane?" Irving asks softly._

_ I nod, unable to speak._

_ "You see, you're not always alone," he says with uncharacteristic quietness._

_ "It's all right," Miss Mills says, rising from her knees. I watch my future self immediately come to her aid even as I feel my own ghost-self reflexively stepping forward to do the same._

_ "He tracked in some snow, so watch your socks," she says as I remove my boots, waving her hand at the rapidly-melting snow on the floor._

_ "August, did you forget again?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at the child. My son. August, named after Sheriff Corbin, undoubtedly. A fine, strong name._

_ As I look at my future self gazing down at my son, I realize he looked familiar to me because he looks remarkably like me, only with brown eyes and curls._

_ He nods. "I sorry, Mama."_

_ "It's okay, Baby. I know you were excited. It's a cool pinecone," she says, running her fingers through his hair as he beams up at her. "You going to hold that wood all day?" she asks me, smirking._

_ I chuckle and bring my burden to the wood box beside the fireplace, then place another log onto the already-burning fire. "When will dinner be ready, Love?"_

_ "Fifteen minutes," she says. "So that means Jenny'll be here in 25," she adds, laughing._

_ I watch as we interact, comfortable and easy, two people who are clearly best friends as well as very much in love._

_ Is this really my future? Am I destined to love Miss Mills as well as be her fellow Witness?_

_ I do love her already, but it is a different kind of love. She already is my best friend and comrade-at-arms. I would protect her with my life and I know she would do the same for me._

_ I want to know how this will come to pass. I want to know what happens to change the nature of our relationship. When do I discover my feelings have changed? Do I woo her properly, the way she deserves? Does she let me?_

_ Or is it _she_ who initiates the change? She is extraordinarily modern; I would not be surprised if that is, indeed, what happens._

_ Choices, Parrish had said. I find I am very curious about the choices that will lead to _this_ future. A new feeling blooms in my stomach, one I haven't felt since I've awoken in this time. Hope._

_ I turn, remembering Captain Irving behind me. "Captain…"  
_

_"Time's up, Crane," he tells me. "Let's go."_

_ "But I wish to see more," I protest, turning back in time to see my future self pull Miss Mills in for a kiss – a beautiful, loving kiss, one hand caressing her swollen abdomen while the other skims the flawless skin of her cheek – while my son clings to my leg, clamoring, "Papa… up!" My heart aches longingly at the sight. Swells. "Abbie…" The name falls unchecked from my lips._

_ The realization that this could be my life both frightens and excites me._

_ Irving taps my shoulder. "Tick-tock, tick-tock. No time left. It's morning. Wakey-wakey."_


	7. Ebenezer Crane: Part 4

Ebenezer Crane - Epilogue

Abbie knocks on the door of the cabin, surprised to find it still locked. _At least he remembered to lock it this time._

There's no answer. That's _very_ unusual, as he is generally waiting on the porch for her, professing to have woken with the dawn. She knocks again. "Crane?" She looks around, wondering if he'd stepped out for a _morning constitutional_ or something like that.

A moment later, she hears it. "Abbie…" At least, she thinks she does. It is soft, plaintive.

_Is he sick?_ Abbie digs into her pocket and grabs her keys, quickly unlocking the door and letting herself in.

"Crane," she sighs, relieved, seeing him asleep on the couch, sprawled on his back with Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ opened face-down on his chest. _Why is he still asleep?_

She steps forward and bends to touch his shoulder. "Crane? Wake up."

He jumps as though she had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. "Oh! M-Miss Mills, I…" he stops, sitting bolt upright and staring at her, his face a mask of surprise and confusion.

"You all right?" she asks. "You don't normally oversleep."

He keeps staring, his mind a whirl of images. Fleeting, blurry images, none coming into focus.

"Crane? You're scaring me," Abbie says, touching his hand now.

"Forgive me, Lieutenant, I… I fear I was up too late reading and drifted off…" he mutters, still scrabbling for clarity. He absently retrieves the fallen book from the floor. "I… I was dreaming…" he furrows his brows. "I think…"

"About what?" Abbie asks, curious, standing again.

Crane closes his eyes, scrunching up his face as he struggles. _It's just out of reach. It's there, but behind a closed door._ "I… I do not remember. Something to do with the holiday… perhaps…" he says, his voice awed.

"New experience for you, hey?" she asks.

"Indeed," he says. _Perhaps I am not meant to fully remember._ "If you will give me but ten minutes, I will be ready to accompany you to the station." He stands, and Abbie steps out of his way, glancing down.

"Oh, sorry. I tracked in some snow, so watch your socks," she warns, waving her hand at the rapidly-melting snow on the floor.

Crane stops cold, a curious tingle running down his spine, as he stands, halfway to the bedroom.

"Crane? You okay?"

He closes his eyes, willing this sense of déjà vu to manifest itself.

"Crane?"

His eyes snap open at the feel of her hand on his elbow.

"Are you okay?" Abbie asks again, slowly this time, her face full of concern.

"I…" he starts, but is unable to continue.

"Look, if you need to stay home today, that's fine…"

"No," he answers immediately. "I am… okay. Just a trifle rattled, forgive me."

"You're sure?" she asks.

"Yes. Yes. Just… ten minutes, and I will be ready to accompany you wherever you wish to go." He manages a small smile and wills his feet to move.

"Must have been one hell of a dream," she mutters, sitting on the couch.

_I'm beginning to think it was,_ Crane thinks, stealing one more glance at Miss Mills on the couch, flipping through his book, before closing the bedroom door. _I am beginning to think it was._

Crane's confused face softens into a tiny, hopeful smile. _However, I do not think "hell" is quite the word I would choose._


End file.
